


One Trope Over the Line

by Bsmadi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is better than he seems, Kidnapping, Not purposefully slash, Other, Season Three AU, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Very Cherry Red Lipstick, cat!lock, stoned students, tails and ears added, tails can be quite sexy just saying, will add more tags as the story progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3595035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bsmadi/pseuds/Bsmadi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from his mission to destroy Moriarty's web to find that he's trapped in a series of Tropes.  Follow our heroes as they fight their way through one almost impossible situation after another, just trying to find their way back to normal. Well, normal for them. </p><p>(This fic was first introduced as a series of stand alones, but then I realized they are all one big tropey bit of fun!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just in the Nick of Almost on Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bladelover](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Bladelover).



> I own nothing. I own no one. I get no money. 
> 
> I do enjoy putting my favorite characters from my favorite show in lots of really odd situations.

It was so good to be home. 

The tall man stood, balanced precariously on the ledge of the building, wind whipping his black coat, and even blacker hair about, in a way that suggested mystery and mayhem all wrapped up in a hero sandwich. Yes, it was good to be home. Home to his first and only, his one true love. It had been worth it. All of it. The endless travel, the depredation, the mind-numbing boredom, the torture, the occasional case of Montezuma’s revenge. Everything. It was worth it to know that his love was safe. 

“Do come down, brother mine.” Sherlock hung his head and growled at the interruption of his inner narration. “You’re gathering a crowd. Sure enough, while he was looking down anyway, he observed that a small crowd had gathered, looking up and pointing. As he watched, one enterprising young man walked through the crowd taking money and giving out slips of paper, obviously taking bets on whether or not he’d actually jump. Again. “Besides, I’m sure London will wait while we debrief you on the latest terrorist threats.”

“London?” Sherlock took a hop backwards, neatly landing on the inside of the ledge. If from below there was an audible groan of disappointment, he chose not to hear it. 

“Yes, London.” Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and crossed one leg over the other, an unconscious imitation of his childhood favorite television hero, John Steed. “You were thinking of your one true love, where you not?” Something that might have been a smile, or maybe was a late reaction to the overabundance of lemon in his tea, crossed his face. “Your sentiment was obvious.”

“Uh, yes. London. Obviously.” Sherlock followed his brother into the building and down a maze of stairways and corridors until they came to probably the darkest, dreariest, office in the building. “I’ve often wondered, Mycroft.” Sherlock flung himself into a chair, one long leg draped over the the arm. “Why is it that you, a man of nearly infinite power and position, cannot get an office with a window?”

“It was the painting or the window, Sherlock.”

“Ah, of course.” Sherlock looked at the painting that hung in a garish gold frame behind Mycroft’s desk. “A painting of a young man in high heels and knee socks or a window. Yes, I suppose the answer was obvious, after all.”

“Indeed.” The diplomat took a moment to admire the quality of the painting before sighing and moving behind the desk. Sitting, he picked up a file folder and opened it, slowly looking at each page. Then, just as slowly, he looked over the file at Sherlock. “I suppose you’d like to know about John Watson.”

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. “Yes,” he said. “How is poor John fairing.”

“Quite well, actually.” Mycroft slid a photograph across the desk. “He has a thriving private practice, a beautiful girlfriend, and a mustache.”

“He looks quite gray.” Sherlock said, a frown of worry crossing his face. “He used to have such a healthy tan for an Englishman.”

“That’s a black and white photograph, Sherlock.” Mycroft snatched at the photo only to have it whipped away by Sherlock who was now standing and pacing. 

“Look at him, Mycroft.” Sherlock stopped and thrust the picture under his brother’s nose. “He’s wearing a moustache, Mycroft. A. Moustache.” He dropped the picture and put both hands on the desk, hanging his head between them. “He is so obviously trying to hide his pain.”

“Perhaps you should go see him, brother.” Mycroft quickly put all the papers back in the file and shoved them into a drawer, slamming it shut with a look of triumph. “Reassure yourself.”

“Yes.” Sherlock twirled this way and that, his body reflecting the turmoil in his mind. “Yes, that’s it. I must go to him.” He stopped turning and pointed a finger at Mycroft. “Where is he?”

A smile crept across Mycroft’s face. “How should I know?” he asked. “Am I my brother’s keeper’s keeper?”

“You know.” Sherlock’s eyes pinned Mycroft in place. “You always know.”

“Fine.” Mycroft snorted. “If you must know, he’s taken a small flat.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the latest iPhone. Fingers moved rapidly across the screen. “There. You have the address. Now if you don’t mind, I do have work.”

At the sound of a sharp ping, Sherlock pulled out his slightly newer, and obviously bigger Samsung, smirked knowingly, and then acknowledged the text. “I had better not be late… brother.”

“He eats dinner at eight.” Mycroft made a show of sharpening his pencil. “Casual dress.”

At precisely three past eight, Sherlock arrived at the door to John’s flat. Raising his fist to knock on the door he cursed the dearth of black cabs that night. It had taken nearly two and a half minutes to flag one down and then, when he finally did manage to get one, he was forced to waste even more time by stopping to pay. If he should enter this flat to find John less than alive, Anwar, the taxi driver, would pay dearly for the delay.

“John!” Sherlock shouted as he pounded on the door. “John, don’t do it. I’m here. I’m back.”

The door opened and there, silhouetted by the light of the television screen was a short, blond man, in baggy sleep bottoms, a more than little worn vest, and a mustache. The man stood, wide-eyed for a moment and then, narrowing his eyes, and tilting his head a bit, took one sharp step back and slammed the door.

Sherlock stared at the closed door as if the act of staring alone would somehow cause it to reopen. It didn’t. Sighing, Sherlock knocked again. “John.” Sherlock spoke slowly and clearly. “Let me in. I swear to you, I’m no ghost or hallucination. This is really me.”

“Go away, Sherlock.” John’s voice was surprisingly strong for someone who was undoubtedly on the edge of insanity or death, quite probably both. “Jesus, Sherlock. I cannot believe even you… No. No, sod this. Just get the hell out of here before I find a way to kill you for real.”

John must be in a worst state than he had even imagined if he couldn’t bear to see, or, no… Sherlock’s eyes and mouth popped open as realization hit. It wasn’t that he couldn’t bear to see him. How could he ever think that of his John. No, obviously things were much, much worse and it was that John could not bear to be seen in his now deteriorated condition. “John.” Sherlock fought to keep his voice calm. “Let me in or I shall be forced to knock down this door.”

The door stayed resolutely shut. Sherlock sighed and put his hand, palm flat, on the door, testing the wood grains to find a vulnerable spot. When he was sure he had found a suitable location, he backed up until he was against the wall opposite the door, then with sudden flurry of woolen coat, he threw himself, shoulder first, into the door. The door remained where it was. The same could not necessarily be said for the shoulder.

After about three minutes of elegant swearing, performed in three languages, the door finally opened. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. Get in here before you get me evicted.”

Sherlock rushed in and grabbed John by his upper arms, holding him still as he raked him over with his eyes, looking for signs of self-destruction. “What have you done, John?” he asked. “Tell me quickly before it’s too late.”

John’s face couldn’t seem to decide on an expression. It went from surprised, to angry, to confused, back to angry, to even angrier. Finally, it seemed to settle on furious, and John just went right along with it. “What have I done? What have I…” John managed to move his arms enough to push the lanky detective away. “I’m not the one who went and threw myself off a building and let his best friend deal with the pain.”

“I know.” Sherlock looked around the room, looking for a gun, pills, rope, a razor, maybe a large bucket of water, or a dry chicken sandwich, anything that might possibly be lethal to a determinedly suicidal man. “I really should have thought that out a bit, but, in my defense, it was a pretty good plan. I mean just getting the giant mattress in place took…”

“You are not seriously about to tell me how you didn’t actually kill yourself in front of me are you?” 

Sherlock stopped, closed his mouth with an audible click, raised his eyebrows in question and after watching John’s fist open and close rhythmically several times, quickly shook his head.

“Good.” John’s stance, which had become rigid in the way an angry drill sergeant's might, even though he had actually been a Captain, loosened slightly. “And you were, I’m sure, about to tell me what a complete cock you were, and undoubtedly still are, yeah?” 

Sherlock surprised himself when he didn’t even bristle at this. He surprised himself further when he realized that he was looking at his shoes and that his shoes were doing this annoying shuffling thing that they used to do when he was a schoolboy and he was being “talked to” by his father for some silly, little thing, like burning down half the kitchen with an experimental volcano. He heard a voice that sounded suspiciously like his own say, “I am truly sorry, John. I am indeed a… one of those things.”

“Right.” John gave a crisp nod. “Right. That’s settled then.” Sherlock watched as his friend looked around as if he would find what to do next written on a piece of paper tacked to the wall or sitting on a table. He didn’t, so he sighed and moved on to what one does when one doesn’t know what to do. “I’m making tea. Do you want a cuppa?”

Sherlock shrugged his agreement. Tea was fine. In fact, tea was excellent. Tea was what was needed when there was a chance that English emotion might just spill over into a scene. He followed John into the flat’s small kitchen and watched as he set up the kettle and cups. “So,” he asked. “You aren’t going to hit me?”

“Oh yeah.” John’s answer was maybe just a tad too enthusiastic. “I’m going to hit you. Hard. I may even break your nose.” He put the bags in the cups as he waited for the water to boil. “I just need some tea first.”

Sherlock thought this over. “Fair enough.” He accepted his tea, happy to find that John still remembered how he liked it. They carried their cups to the sitting room and found seats. After a few minutes of silent sipping, Sherlock put down his cup and steepled his hands under his chin. “So, you weren’t about to kill yourself in utter despair or psychological trauma or anything, were you.” It wasn’t a question.

“No, Sherlock.” John put his own cup down and Sherlock had to fight the almost instinctual need to lower his own gaze. “I was devastated by what I had seen, of course. And I missed you very much, more than you can know. I mean, my God, Sherlock. Look at me. I grew a moustache, for God’s sake!” He stopped and licked the bottom of said moustache, maybe realizing for the first time how much even he hated it. “But, Sherlock. You know me better. I could never do that. I could never leave my friends with that guilt.”

Aw, so there was the punch, and it did hurt, and it did break something. It wasn’t his nose, after all, and Sherlock found that he wished it was. Still, there was a mystery here, and even suffering from a broken something, Sherlock knew it was one that must be solved. “But I was so sure,” he said, slowly. “It was almost as if it had been written into our destinies.”

“Well, that’s just…”

“Sentimental?”

“Well, I was going to say stupid, but, yeah, okay. It’s pretty damned sentimental.” John eyed Sherlock suspiciously. “One might even say poetic.”

“But you would not.” Sherlock warned.

“No.” John smiled. “No, I would never do that.”

“Still,” Sherlock mused. “I was sure of it.” He stood and paced the small flat, even stopping to stare out the window at what wasn’t Baker Street but was a pretty nice view of the man in the building across pumping iron.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmmmm?” Sherlock startled as he realized he had stopped talking. “Umm, sorry,” he said. “Mind palace.” He turned back to John. “You know, I even left before I had finished my mission, the call was so strong.”

John pursed his lips in annoyance. “Sorry,” he said. “Next time you go off and not really die in front of me I shall try a bit harder to act on my utter remorse.”

Sherlock waved his hand absently, as if trying to shoo away silly bits of unnecessary sarcasm. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, missing the point entirely, which he did really quite a lot considering he was a genius and all. “It was just a small cell in Serbia. I’m sure it would have been an in and out operation.” He walked back to the window only to find the view had changed to that of a very old, very naked woman slowly applying moisturizer to places Sherlock wasn’t even sure he wanted to know very old women had. He instead watched as a raven danced along the window sill.

“It’s odd,” he said. “But I feel as though I was compelled to come back. Well.” He clapped his hands together as he turned quickly, flashing a rare sincere smile. “You will come back to Baker Street with me, yes?”

John hesitated. “You know I have a fiance now, right?”

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll get on.” Sherlock’s smile widened. “After all we both have something in common.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, let me just pack some things.”

“Good.” Sherlock practically beamed as he watched the raven fly away. “Don’t forget your razor. You are going to need it!”


	2. Only On a Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are on the case, or is it a date?

“Right. Yeah, I know. I’m sorry.” 

The man held the several years out of date phone away from his ear and scrunched his face at volume of the answer to the almost sincere telephonic apology. The feminine voice on the other end stopped abruptly and there would have been the audible click of the angry hang-up, if only mobiles actually worked that way. As it was, there was a condemning silence that went on far after the phone was put away in the inside pocket of his jacket. 

“Upset a bit?” Sherlock held out a hand for a cab.. “You did explain that it was for a case?”

“You know I did.” A cab pulled up and Sherlock was already inside waiting impatiently as John finished his thought. “You heard exactly what I told her.”

“Then I fail to see her problem.” 

“Well, you wouldn’t would you?” John looked over at his friend just in time to see him finish what had no doubt been a spectacular eye roll. “Oh, please, Sherlock. Relationships, remember? Not your area.” The last sentence had been pronounced slowly, and precisely, and with very obviously articulated air quotes.

Sherlock shrugged the shoulder closest to John and gave his head a bit of a sideways nod. John kept his face as neutral as possible, but inwardly, he was not only smiling, but dancing a little jig of happy because he knew that he had found the one argument that Sherlock couldn’t counter. There was silence in the cab, and the faint scent of someone’s leftover curry smelled like victory. 

The silence continued as they reached their destination, the kind of posh bar that catered to a wealthy clientele that wanted to look like they were just like everyone else when they went to the pub. There was a jukebox with unnecessarily loud music on it, dart boards, and one of those football tables where you turned the knobs and little players spin upside down. Only no one was using them. Instead everyone was crammed into dark booths and isolated tables, hoping not to be seen in their casual clothes being normal, because it just isn’t cool being spotted trying to be cool. After finding a table that was not only isolated but also had a view of the door and all the other fairly isolated booths and tables, John went to the bar and returned with two mugs of something dark and frothy.

“You know, it could be.”

“What?” John was fairly sure that he had missed part of a conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time that Sherlock had had a conversation with him without benefit of his actual presence. Once he came home from a three-day conference to hear, “and that’s why I always use sunscreen on that part of my anatomy whether it’s sunny or not.” John had been kept awake many a night pondering how that conversation had started, where sunscreen was being applied, and why. He only started sleeping again when he realized there were some things one really shouldn’t know about one’s flatmate.

“Relationships.” Sherlock’s voice conveyed how much of an idiot John was obviously being, and frankly, now that he thought it over, John had to agree. Of course Sherlock would not let this go. “They could be my area. Just because I choose not to indulge doesn’t mean I don’t know how.”

John nearly choked as the scoff and his drink came pouring out of his mouth and nose.

“Oh, that’s attractive.” Sherlock took a slow, thoughtful sip from his own pint. “Frankly, I don’t see what all that fuss is about. I’m sure that I’m more than capable of showing a date a good time.” He put down his glass and looked around the bar as he continued. “In fact, I’ve often wonder why it is that you never seem all that successful, Three Continents Watson.”

That was a challenge, John thought. That was most definitely a challenge. It was also a fucking safe challenge because it wasn’t like they could just pull a couple of somebodies from the bar. Morality aside, a pick up isn’t a date. So this was a challenge that no one could possibly accept.

“I accept.” Well, okay, maybe he could accept it.

“You… accept.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He was intrigued. John had him. The game was on.

“Yep, I, John, Three Continents, Watson accept your challenge, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.” Oh, yeah, this was going to be fun. “We all know what I would do on a date. God knows, you’ve shown up at enough of them. Now it’s your turn.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “As of now, we are officially on a date.” He nodded toward his friend, smirk firmly in place. “Go ahead. Woo me.”

Sherlock stared without blinking, his multi-hued eyes never once letting go of John’s and, for a minute there, John was almost certain that Sherlock intended to hypnotize him into believing he was on the ultimate date. Suddenly, however, the gaze ended and a smile crept over Sherlock’s face. He bit his lower lip, nodded, and looked around the room. Then, with a grace that suggested fluidity rather than actual bone and muscle, he stood, moved next to John’s chair, and held out his hand. “John,” he said, his voice somehow becoming all chocolatey smooth. “Will you please join me for a drink?”

John wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but he found himself standing, his hand firmly, yet, surprisingly gently, being held in Sherlock’s long fingers. He looked down at their hardly touched glasses. “We already have drinks.”

“No,” Sherlock corrected. “Here is where two colleagues shared a drink while staking out a potential crime.” He led John, who somehow actually allowed himself to be led, to a corner booth, far from doors, windows and dart boards, and gestured for him to sit. “Here,” he said. “Is where I bring my date and ask him what he would like to drink.”

John slid into the booth. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll have a pint of stout.”

Sherlock smiled and John suddenly had the feeling that he had made the best choice ever. “Stout.” Sherlock nodded. “Stout it is.” John watched as the man made his way to the bar, lifted two fingers to the completely confused barmaid, and returned with two fresh glasses. He slid into the booth next to John. careful to leave just enough space between them so that they didn’t actually touch at all. They sat quietly for a few minutes each staring off into the nothingness in front of them, not knowing what to say next. John had to admit, so far, it was a typical date.

Suddenly the silence broke. “See that man over there?” Sherlock nodded toward the bar. John followed the nod to see a slightly overweight, middle-aged man with a bad combover, nursing something that looked like it had whiskey in it.

“Yeah?” John looked back to Sherlock and then fought the urge to jump when he realized that his friend’s face was very close to his own.

“He’s waiting for his girlfriend.” Sherlock’s whisper had the edge of pretend conspiracy. “Watch.” Sure enough as they watched a woman with Lucy-red hair, with nails and shoes dyed to match, sat next to him.

John chuckled. “Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Even I could have deduced that one.” He made a tsking sound, then shook his head sadly. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to impress this date.”

“Hmmmm, alright.” Damn did that man just purr? Where did he learn to purr. Purring was definitely not fair. “That woman.”

“You mean the one over there with her husband?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Not her husband.”

“Okay.” John watched for a bit and realized that the woman was alternately looking out the window and checking her watch. “Okay. I get it. She’s afraid that she’s going to be caught and she can’t be too late, right?”

“Yes. Very good, John.” Sherlock looked surprised and John felt just a bit proud until he remembered they were on a date and that Sherlock probably was only acting impressed. “I see my influence is starting to show. And quite correct as far as it goes, however...”

The night went on. There were more deductions from Sherlock and more drinks. There were some fake deductions from John, some laughter and more drinks. There was a frankly embarrassing game of darts in which they all lost to Lucy-red, some more drinks and some chips in a very unscientific attempt to sop up some of the drinks. 

And there was touching. At first this surprised John. Sherlock was not, in his experience, a toucher. Oh, he would push, fight, grab, but when it came to even casual touching Sherlock was more than shy, he seemed almost phobic. And yet, tonight, on a date, Sherlock had not hesitated to put his hand on John’s hips to correct his dart throwing stance, and when they sang Bohemian Rhapsody, along with most of the bar, when it came on the jukebox, his arm seemed to find it’s way around John’s shoulder. By the time they got back to the booth to sit quietly with their drinks, John was unsurprised to find that they were now sitting so close that their thighs touched. 

He was having a great time. He had to admit it, Sherlock was really fucking good at this dating thing. Still, John was nothing if not a competitive man, so he offered one last challenge in the hopes of winning the game. 

“You know, Sherlock,” he said. “I have to admit it. This has been fun.” 

“Ha!” Sherlock sat back, basking in his triumph. “I win, then.”

“Not so fast, Mr. Sherlock, not even a whole city, Holmes.” John pulled out his trump card. “A date can be completely perfect but it doesn’t mean a thing if the kiss goes pear shape.”

For a few seconds Sherlock seemed to freeze and John wondered, briefly, if he had broken him with the announcement. He leaned over just to check if the man was still breathing, when Sherlock suddenly seemed to come back to himself. John startled, but before he could move away, Sherlock had moved in close and there it was. The kiss. It was sweet, and gentle, contained just the hint of a promise of something more, and it was…

“Well, no offense Sherlock, but that was just… yeah, I got nothing.”

“Nothing?” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. Then, after thinking a minute, he shrugged. “Yeah, it wasn’t great, was it?” He looked up at the ceiling and tapped a finger on his lip. “Of course,” he said, slowly. “It’s not like you really tried all that hard, now is it.”

“You are not, I hope, implying that I’m rubbish at kissing.” Even as John bristled, there was a part of him that was shouting _Shut the fuck up, Watson. You are getting in way too deep._ Unfortunately, the rest of him was being all competitive in the oddest game of machismo he had ever played and just refused to listen. “I’ll have you know, I have never had any complaints. Not one.”

“Well,” Sherlock bumped him with his leg. “Until now.”

Something that may have been a growl came from somewhere deep in John’s throat. “I can do much better when given a bit of warning.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

Sherlock didn’t smile, didn’t coyly bite his lower lip, didn’t look boyishly innocent. Instead he smirked. He full on, tauntingly, irritatingly, and most importantly to John, challengingly, smirked. “Prove. It.” 

In retrospect, John thought it was probably the heavily pronounce teh sound at the end of the phrase that did it. “Right.” he said. And without further preamble John slipped his hand behind Sherlock’s head urging him down, while he raised his head up, mouths meeting somewhere in the middle. As kisses go, this one was damned near perfect. There was give and take, tongues and teeth in just the right amounts, not too much moisture but just enough to allow for continued touching. It was the kind of kiss that most lovers take years to perfect and this, on only their second try. 

It ended, eventually, as all kisses must, leaving the two men facing each other, noses almost touching, eyes wide open. Funnily enough, it was Sherlock who started the giggling. “I take it all back.” He took a large swallow of his beer, and John wondered if he was actually washing out the taste of his tongue. “You are a great kisser.”

John smiled proudly and held his glass in mock salute. “Told ya, you git.”

Sherlock watched the contents of his glass as his giggles slowly faded. Then, after moving just slightly, so that their legs no longer touched, he cleared his throat. “John, I...” 

_Oh, God. Here it comes._ John braced himself and mentally started practicing the words he would need to let his friend down easy. 

“John, I think it best to tell you that I, although I regard you in the highest esteem possible, do not… I have never actually wanted…”

Relief washed over him like waves on a windy day at Brighton. “You don’t want me, do you.” John was trying not to start giggling again, knowing on some level that it would probably be very wrong. “Is that what you’re trying to say, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked stricken and John instantly felt bad. “Sherlock, you birk.” John lightly punched Sherlock’s arm in the way of manly men everywhere. “How many fucking times do I have to say it. I’m not gay.”

“Despite all evidence to the contrary.” Sherlock raised his fist to punch back, then, after looking at it, used it instead to grab his glass and down the rest of whatever was in it.

John picked up his own glass, then, after scrunching his nose in distaste, put it down. “Yeah, despite that.”

Sherlock slid out of the booth and stood, albeit with less fluidity than before. “What do you say we call it a night.” No hands were offered. None were expected.

They were out in the street and in the process of looking for a cab, when John suddenly remembered why they were there in the first place. “Sherlock,” he said, pulling on the man’s coat. “What about the case?”

“Hmmm?” A cab had stopped at a wave of the tall man’s hand. Well, of course it had. “Case?”

“We came here to watch for..” John stopped. “What were we watching for again?” That was so odd. He was sure he knew when they came in.

Sherlock stood, cab door open, one foot already in. “Strange,” he said. “I can’t seem to remember the particulars, only that we had to come here.” He got the rest of the way in and sat with a plop. Tenting his fingers under his chin, he mused quietly, not caring if John heard or not. “Why would I have deleted information like that?”

As the cab pulled away, John looked out the window and watched the bar as they drove by. He couldn’t see inside and all he could see outside was a raven taking flight in front of the window.

“Are you cold, guv?” The cabbie called back. “I can turn up the heat.”

“What?” John was brought out of his own revelry by the question. “No.” He looked down at his arm, which was covered in gooseflesh. He was shivering, but he wasn’t cold. “No, I’m fine,” he said. But really, he wasn’t at all sure.


	3. Kind of Kidnapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is kidnapped and tortured. No really. This was torture. Torture and a half.

The day had started out so well for John Watson.

He woke to knowledge that not only did he have the day off, but together with his flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, he had just solved a case that involved not one, but two, locked room murders and the theft of a priceless antique necklace. This meant said flatmate would be asleep for the better part of the day, making up for all the sleep he didn’t get while he was working a case. To top all that off, his fiancee, Mary, was away for some “just the girls” shopping expedition. This left John with the rarity of rarities in his life, a day just for him. By the time he had finished dressing for the day, he was practically giddy with anticipation of the nothingness ahead.

He made his morning cuppa, brought it into the blissfully empty and quiet sitting room, and set it down on the small table next to his chair. Sitting down and sinking in, he sighed contentedly as he stretched his own arms along the arms of the chair and let his head slowly sink back. He sat like that, with his eyes closed, just enjoying. That lasted about two and a half minutes. Then his fingers began to tap a tattoo at the edge of the chair, and soon after his feet joined in. By the time the rhythm had worked its way up to knees and elbows, John had had enough. He stood and stretched, for no other reason than one should stretch when getting up on a relaxing day, and said, “Right. I’m going out.”

Out was better. It was warm. It was sunny. There were people to watch and stores to look into. Yes, out was good. It even had coffee shops in which to buy a cuppa to replace the one he had left by his chair. After walking around a bit, John and his cuppa eventually found a nice bench in the park and sat to watch the ducks, and one very persistent raven, attack the young children who were foolish enough to carry about corn to throw. When children running from hungry ducks no longer appealed, John decided to go home and see if Sherlock was awake yet. If not, maybe he’d throw some corn at him.

He was just in front of the Chinese down the street when he heard someone from behind him call out, “Yo, John!” He turned to see a young and very confused looking man frowning at him. “Dude,” he said. “You’re not John.”

John was about to say that he was a John when something very hard and very painful hit him on the back of his head. He fell forward, into the chest of the young man in front of him, who instinctually caught him. The man, boy really, looked horrified. In his slightly addled condition, it took John a second to catch on that he wasn’t actually looking at him, but over his shoulder. “It’s NOT John, man!”

John felt himself fall to the ground. The last thing he heard before darkness overcame him was, “Dude, you dropped him. We are so fucked.”

Some time later, John sat wondering why he had fallen asleep in the chair when he had planned to go out. Then, as cobwebs cleared a bit, he remembered he had gone out, but no matter how many cobwebs he shooed away from his brain, he couldn’t quite remember going home again and sitting down. It was at about this point when he realized that his eyes were closed and if he opened them it was likely he could figure this whole thing out. 

Yeah, that was a mistake. First, the room was far too bright for someone who probably had at least a bit of concussion. Second, this was not a room he knew. Right. So he had been hit on the head and taken somewhere and… he paused to try moving his feet and hands. So yeah, taken somewhere and duct taped to a chair. He was gagged as well, although, thankfully, with something that at least tasted clean. Okay, so kidnapped. Looking around the room, he saw two beds, a bureau and what looked to be an en suite. Right, so a motel room and that meant these were amateurs and probably pretty dumb ones, considering he wasn’t even the John they were looking for, which could be an advantage but it could also mean they would be reckless. Finally, and most disconcerting from John’s point of view, he had been stripped down to his pants and socks.

“Dude, he’s waking up.” 

John recognized the voice of the person he hadn’t seen earlier, the one that had probably hit him over the head with something. The voice belonged to another young man, blond, twentyish, tan in a way that suggested a lifestyle choice, and irritatingly perfect teeth, so American, probably from California. The other guy, the one that called out to him was sitting on one of the beds, going through his wallet. “Huh,” he said. “Hey, look at this, Brandon. The guy’s name really is John. John Watson.”

“Dude, you did NOT just use my name in front of him.”

Dude, for this is how John was going to think of him forever, even though he was pretty sure it wasn’t his name, looked up, looked at John and then looked at the surfer guy. “Uh, no.” He said this slowly, eyebrows raised high to clue surfer guy that he was making a point. “I called you by your fake name, Brandon.”

Surfer guy was just a bit smarter than John had originally given him credit, because it really only took him two-maybe three- minutes to catch on. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “Right, um Brandon.”

Dude just rolled his eyes and continued going through John’s things. He was obviously the smarter of the two, even if it was only by a couple of decimal points, so John concentrated his observation on him. He was young as well, maybe even younger than surfer guy. He had short brown hair, was fit, in the way young men are often fit without even trying, and was dressed in jeans, a blue, cotton shirt, and white trainers. “So, okay, this guy is John Watson and he lives at two two one Baker Street and he’s, whoa, really?” He looked up at John. “You’re that old?”

John wasn’t sure what was worse, being insulted by someone too stupid to kidnap the right John, or being gagged and unable to make an appropriately scathing remark. John narrowed his eyes and settled for a really disapproving glare, but since neither Dude nor surfer guy were looking at him, he gave it up as fairly ineffectual and frankly just a bit ridiculous. 

“So what do you think we ought to do with him?” Dude was apparently done searching John’s pockets and was now, very carefully, putting things back where he found them. “I mean, it’s not like we can take him back with us.”

“Yeah.” Surfer Guy seemed to find this funny based on the odd snorting sound he was making. “He’s too big to fit in the overhead compartment.”

Both boys found this pretty much hilarious, only confirming what John had already guessed. These two weren’t just stupid, they were stoned out of their minds. He’d be willing to bet big money, if he actually had his wallet, that Amsterdam had been a recent stop on their itinerary.

“No, seriously, though.” Dude was beginning to look a little worried. “What are we going to do with him.” He looked at John like he was really seeing what they had done for the first time. “I mean we can’t just let him go, can we. We could get arrested or something.”

It was at this point that the gag proved to be a real disadvantage. If he had full use of his mouth John would have explained that, while, yes, he was annoyed, he did understand that some sort of mistake had been made. He would have further said that he too had once been young and had done his share of stupid things. He would have let them know that if they let him go, and gave him back his clothes and personal items, he would leave and they would never have to worry about him again. However, he was gagged so it came out more like “Et ne o, u nuva uckas!”

Dude looked at Surfer Guy, and Surfer Guy looked at Dude. Then they both burst out laughing harder than before. Really, this couldn’t get any more humiliating.

You know, one should never think that something can never get any more anything, because that’s the signal the universe waits for just before it ups the ante, in this case, in the form of a pretty girl bursting into the room. “Alright, what have you idiots done with my…”

Said pretty girl, stopped. She looked at John. She looked at the two boys. Then, with the sort of dramatic sigh that only a young woman can manage, she closed the door. “Okay, so there is a nearly naked man tied up in my room.” She turned to John. “Hello, by the way.” John nodded, because, well what else could he do, really? “And my fiance seems to have gone missing.” She crossed her arms across her chest and looked very stern. “Am I wrong in thinking that there must be some sort of connection?”

Dude held his hands out in the universal code for I’m sorry I’m such a dumbass. “It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Yeah, you know.” Surfer Guy smiled like he actually had a hope of explaining this in a way that wasn’t going to piss off the pretty girl. “Like for your wedding.”

The pretty girl frowned. “So…” She spoke very slowly, as if trying to understand the un-understandable. “You went out and got me a strange old guy in his underwear for a wedding present?”

“Right!” Dude smiled brightly for a second, then seemed to realize his mistake. “I mean, ummmm, no.” He looked over to Surfer Guy, but if he thought he was getting any help there, he was put straight by the blank look and shrug. Then he turned to John, which John found very funny, considering he was the only person in the room who really seemed to understand what was going on, and he was also the only one in the room completely unable to talk. A snort of laughter tried to escape but it’s amazing how well gags stop snorts from becoming anything remotely sounding like laughter. 

Meanwhile, Dude was trying again. “See, we thought we would get John a little, well, messed up and then pretend to leave him. Then we would come back, and like, you know, kidnap him and bring him back here for you to, well, yeah, whatever it is, you actually do do together.”

John found himself nodding. Yep. That’s pretty close to how he had it figured. He wondered idly if he would now be expected to stand-in. He looked at Pretty Girl and decided that there were worst forms of torture. 

He would have berated himself for being a dirty, but really not so old, no matter what these guys think, man, when any kind of thought was thrown out of his head and replaced by the shout of Pretty Girl, who had, through the miraculous power of the idiocy of men, been turned into Super Angry Girl. 

“That is NOT John!” Super Angry Girl was taking no prisoners. 

“He is a John,” Surfer Guy said, helpfully. Super Angry Girl ignored him. John was pretty sure Surfer Guy should count his blessings.

“Wait.” Oh, this was interesting. One of Super Angry Girl’s super powers was to freeze an entire room and all its inhabitants with one word. “Are you telling me that you numbnuts took my fiancee out, got him high and then left him on the streets of London?” And another superpower was discovered. Super Angry Girl could sober stoners with her glare of destruction.

“Mary, you were the one who said that he needed to loosen up.” Dude was holding his hand out in supplication. John thought he should probably bring it back in before it was bit off. “Besides, we brought him back.”

“No,” Super Angry Girl looked at Dude, and suddenly John saw that they had the same brown hair, the same blue eyes, and the same bump in their noses. So siblings. Wouldn’t Sherlock be proud, you know, if he ever got out of here, and if he ever thought about telling him. “You brought him back!” 

Super Angry Girl was pointing at John, and somehow John was feeling guilty. Damn, she was good. John frowned as his mind caught up with his ears. Dude called his sister, Mary. So Super Angry Girl was called Mary and her fiancee was named John. That was just way too ironic. It was the kind of thing that happened in bad fan fiction. Yeah, he was definitely never telling Sherlock about this one. He’d be laughing for days, and frankly that was worse than the sulks.

Mary paced a bit muttering inflections that would have made even some of the marines he once knew blush. Suddenly, she stopped and glared at her brother. “You had better hope I find him in one piece.” She grabbed her purse, which she had thrown on the bed next to John’s clothes some time during her tirade, slung it over her shoulder and stomped to the door. She was still muttering as she stormed out of the room, and just before she slammed the door so hard that even the screwed down pictures rattled, John heard her say, “Fucking have to take care of everything. Told her I should have been an only child.”

There was a vacuum left behind when the storm called Mary passed, leaving all three men stunned. It was Surfer Guy who finally broke the silence. “Dude,” he said. “She was pissed.”

“Ya think?” Dude looked over at John. “What do we do with him? I mean it. This is pretty fucked up.” 

“Man, I don’t know.” Surfer Guy sat on the bed and looked sadly at their hostage. “I don’t want to go to jail. I have a paper due in like a week.” John found that he actually felt a little sorry for the duo. They really hadn’t meant to do anything quite this dumb. “Maybe if we knock him out and pour some booze on him, they’ll think he was just like drunk and stupid.” 

Yeah, so much for feeling sorry.

“Oh, I know!” Dude smiled. He started going through one of the satchels strewn about the room. “Ha!” He held a small cylinder over his head in triumph.

“Dude,” Surfer Guy said, his tone oozing doubt. “I don’t think lipstick is going to be a very good disguise.” John would have rolled his eyes, but he was pretty sure he saw where this was going. “I’m way too manly, man.”

“Not for you, dickwad.” Dude pointed the cylinder in John’s direction. “For him.” He came over and smeared some Very Cherry Red around the general vicinity of John’s mouth. Then, after standing back and observing his work, he smeared a bit more on his cheeks and forehead. “There,” he said.

“Yeah, okay. So, what? We decorated him?”

“No, don’t you get it?” Surfer Guy very obviously didn’t. “Now we call the desk and demand to know why this guy was in here and what the hell he was doing with that guy that ran out.”

“What guy?”

“Jesus, how did you ever pass high school?” Dude looked at John, who this time didn’t try to stop his eyes. “The guy we caught this one with. The one who tied him up for his sick, perverted love tryst in our room?” Dude’s eyebrows were so high now that even John’s had risen in sympathy. “No way anyone’s ever going to believe him now when he blames us, see?”

“Dude!” Surfer Guy’s face shined in admiration. “You are practically a genius!” 

Dude nodded once in acknowledgement and picked up the room phone. He had just dialed when there was a knock on the door. Surfer Guy opened it before Dude could shout out, ”NO!”

The man strode in, all black coat and high cheek bones. He stood in front of John, and, to his credit, and John’s utter gratitude, did not burst out in laughter. He then turned his attention to the two men who suddenly looked just like one would expect two young men to look if caught in a hotel room with a man tied up wearing nothing but pants, socks and Very Cherry Red Lipstick.

“I have a message from your,” Sherlock paused a second, and found the right guilty party. “sister.” He sat on the bed, crossed his legs, and started going through John’s pockets. He pulled out his wallet and inspected the contents. Apparently satisfied, he looked up again at Dude. “She’s says she will be back here with the real John in approximately ten minutes, and that you should be not here.” The last was said with a flourish of one long hand that implied air quotes. Surfer Guy looked like he was about to argue, but Dude grabbed his shirt and pulled him out of the door, obviously more afraid of being around when his sister returned than he was of leaving their hostage with this new stranger.

Sherlock sighed, stood up, and started to undo the tape around John’s feet. “So, enjoying your day off?” Since John was still gagged, he settled for a growl as an answer. “Funny thing,” Sherlock continued. “I was just going out for a walk when I ran into a young woman trying to get a very inebriated young man into a taxi. Turns out her brother had kidnapped the wrong John.”

Sherlock undid the tape around John’s arms and then stood back while John untied his own gag. “When she told me it was this short, old dude, well, I knew I had to investigate.”

“Ta for that, then.” John grabbed his trousers and yanked them on. 

“Yes.” Sherlock handed him his shirt. “She said I should hurry over before her brother and his dimwitted friend did anything stupid.” Sherlock stopped talking and bit his bottom lip, while John glared, daring him to go on. “I see I was too late.”

John growled again, mostly because it was probably way too rude to punch the man that did just sort of save him, and moved into the en suite. He was scrubbing his face with the flannel when Sherlock peaked around the corner. “I think I should tell you something.”

“What?” John demanded, scrubbing at the red spot on his forehead. “What the fuck do you need to tell me that cannot wait until I get this crap off my face and I am in my own flat, on my own chair, with a goddamned cup of tea? Hmmm? What?”

“Two things, really.” Sherlock was in calm detective mode, and wasn’t that just the most irritating thing ever when one is scrubbing one’s face so hard that one cannot tell the splotches from the makeup. “I find it an odd coincidence that the girl’s name was Mary and she had a fiancee named John, do you not?”

John stopped scrubbing for a second. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It was kind of weird, but then, weird has sort of been par for the course for us, lately.”

“Exactly!” He said it like that explained everything.

“What does that mean?” John asked, because really, it explained nothing.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock looked in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair creating just the right amount of messy. “I don’t like not knowing.”

John rolled his eyes and went back to scrubbing. “What was the other thing?”

“Very Cherry Red Lipstick doesn’t come off with soap and water.” Sherlock handed John his coat. “It just sort of fades with time.” He opened the room’s door and gestured for John to precede him. “Dinner?”


	4. Tropes and Tales and Kitty Cat Tails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tale of Sherlock's tail... and of his cute, fuzzy ears. The men of Baker St. call on Molly and she gives them a whisker of a clue.

“John, could you come in here, please?”

It wasn’t the almost preternaturally calm voice that made John dropped the newspaper he was reading and practically run toward the loo, although that might have been enough. It was the word “please”. When Sherlock Holmes says please, and he’s not actually in character, well, it’s not exactly the sounding of the apocalypse, but it really is damned close. 

Upon reaching the door, John found that it was only slightly ajar. Placing the flat of his hand against the wood, he pushed it open just a little farther, enough to see that Sherlock was standing in front of the sink, facing the mirror. He could only see parts of his side, but the parts that he could see seemed to be naked, and that meant that the parts he couldn’t see, and wasn’t he grateful for that, were probably naked as well. He stopped pushing the door, and considered actually closing it, but Sherlock had said, please, dammit, so he had to go on.

“Sherlock?” he called, looking at the door and definitely not in to the other side. “You okay?”

“No. No, I don’t think I am.”

John looked away from the door, and focused on the floor of the bathroom. No blood, so that was good. Sherlock’s bare feet seemed steady and straight, also good. 

 

“Oh, for God’s sake, John, would you just come in.”

Insufferable attitude intact. Right, so it couldn’t be that bad. Bolstered by this new found confidence, John pushed the door the rest of the way open. It wasn’t the totally naked form of his roommate that made him stand, unmoving, his jaw dropped, his eyes fixed. After all John Watson was a doctor. He had been in the Army. He attended physical education classes in school. The human body was nothing new to John Watson. So, when he opened that bathroom door and observed the unclothed body of Sherlock Holmes, he had only one thing to say.

“Well, that’s new.”

“Yes, well, that’s one way to describe this, I suppose.” Sherlock looked perplexed, but then he had good reason to look that way. This was, well, this was perplexing. Somehow, during the night, the man had seemed to acquire a tail. An actual, long, furry, moving with a mind of it’s own, tail. It was kind of beautiful, all silky and black, and it was definitely mesmerizing the way it moved, twitching back and forth, but yeah, it was perplexing.

“You have a tail.”

“You noticed that, too,” Sherlock said. “Good for you. Your observational skills are right on point today.” Sherlock’s sarcasm was punctuated by sharp flicks of his tail. 

John decided to let the biting tone pass, given the circumstances. “Okay,” he said. “So, want to tell me why you have a tail?” He reached out and grabbed it gently. “Is it even real?”

“Oh, it’s definitely real.” Sherlock stood still as John examined his new appendage. When John’s let his hand run down the length of it, he shivered a little. “And it’s apparently very sensitive, so if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, sorry.” John dropped the tail, suddenly embarrassed, although he wasn’t sure why. It was a tail. On a human. He was a doctor. Of course he would examine it. Nothing odd about that. 

“Right,” he said. “So, you woke up and, what? You came in to take a shower and you found… that.” John frowned, trying hard to think what to say next. “So, ummmm…. any other symptoms?” When in doubt, go with what you know.

“Oh you mean beside these?” Sherlock bent down so that the top of his head was even with John’s eyes.

“Oh my God.” John hand slowly reached out, drawn, as if by some invisible magnet to two triangular tufts of smooth black coming from the shaggy depths of Sherlock’s usual mess of hair. “Oh my God, Sherlock? Are those… they are, aren’t they.” John found his hand drawing near with an almost irresistible need to touch. “Those are your ears.” 

“Don’t touch them!” Sherlock’s command would have been far more intimidating if, when he said it, the items in question hadn’t flattened in a pretty cat-like, and yet, on a human, comical manner.

John pulled his hand back and raised it palm out. “I’m not touching anything.” He meant those words to sound cross and put upon, but somehow they sounded boyish and guilty. He looked down so that the little suede ears that were now doing a sort of radar like twitching didn’t distract him. He needed to think. 

“Oh,” he said, suddenly, because all that thinking had indeed produced a thought, and it wasn’t a good one. “You don’t suppose this is some sort of after-effect of the Baskerville gas, do you?” John pushed Sherlock to the side to examine his own head in the mirror. “You don’t think I’m going to turn into a cat, too?”

“No.” The word came out slowly as Sherlock pondered the idea. “I rather think not. By now, you would be showing at least some sign of change, and Henry Knight, who had far more exposure than either of us, showed no feline tendencies.” 

“Yeah.” John ran his fingers through his hair, just to straighten it; certainly not to check for velvety triangles of ears. “Yeah. So, feline tendencies.” John unconsciously licked his lips. “Are you feeling any?”

“Are you asking if I have an overwhelming desire to chase mice?” Sherlock took a flannel and put it under some warm water. “Then, no. I don’t suppose I do.” After squeezing most of the water out of the flannel, he used it to slowly rub his right ear, starting from just behind his right eye and working back.

John watched the almost ritualistic cleansing in fascination, then abruptly shook his head. “Right,” he said. “We need to get you to a hospital or... “ John really didn’t want to say this, but… “Maybe call Mycroft.”

“God, no.” Sherlock moved to wrap a towel around his waist, but after several attempts at working around the tail, gave it up. He dropped the towel and looked down as it pooled on the ground at his feet. John watched as his friend’s face went from irritated to something much more worrisome. Sherlock Holmes, for only the second time since John had known him, looked scared. “How am I even supposed to get dressed?”

John considered for a moment. “Maybe it’s like… you know, dressing to the right or left?”

Sherlock face twitched, the corners of his mouth fighting to rise, despite the situation. “This might be a slightly…” His head made a small quirk to the left. “Bigger problem.”

“Yeah.” John’s mouth didn’t fight the smile at all. “I can see that. So leaving the flat might be a problem.” He left the loo while Sherlock stood in front of the mirror experimenting with purposeful ear movements, and went through the sitting room into the kitchen. “I’m just going to make some tea,” he called out. “Or would you rather have maybe a saucer of milk?”

“Tea would be just fine, thank you.” Sherlock ambled into the sitting room, wearing a dark blue dressing gown and nothing else, the tail lifting it in the back with every step he took. John could help but think he was seeing a whole new side of Sherlock today.

John brought out two cups, put one on the table next to Sherlock’s chair and then sat down in his own. Peering into his cup, he pretended to be seeking solace in his traditional manner, but really he was watching Sherlock try to find a way to sit. Tails, it seems are not really conducive to the human style of sitting. Sherlock finally ended up sitting on the back of his chair, feet on the seat, tail swinging behind. Funnily, it wasn’t the first time John had seen him in this position. “I’m calling Molly.”

“What?” There was a chance he had missed something here.

“I said, ‘I’m calling Molly’.” Sherlock plucked his phone from the table and began tapping. “She’s seen a lot of bodies, knows people who have seen lots of others.” He pushed the send button with a flourish. “I can’t have been the only person ever affected in this way.”

Less than an hour later, the shy, but competent forensic doctor stood staring at the once again naked Sherlock. “Honestly,” she said, walking slowly around the tall man. “I’ve never heard of anything like this.” She touched the point on his spine where it seemed to sort of separate from the rest of the body, and was rewarded by the tail looping around her arm. “Oh.” It was less an exclamation than a squeak.

To John’s amusement, Sherlock’s entire body blushed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t seem to have much control.”

“No,” Molly smiled behind Sherlock’s back. “I liked it. It’s quite…” She let her hand pet the the fur. “soft.” 

Sherlock made a noise that could have been an uncomfortable clearing of his throat, but sound very much like a purr to John. Startled, Molly pulled her hand back. “Yes, well…” Molly was now making a similar noise but there was no doubt that she was trying very hard to find her lost professionalism. “I mean, there have been cases of people being born with tails, or um… misformed ears. And, of course, there have always been cases of hypertrichosis, but nothing so sudden or specific, well not outside of…”

“Hypertrichosis?” John knew he had heard the phrase, but right now his inner medical texts had pretty much been replaced by The Cat in the Hat.

“You know,” she lowered her voice, as if it were some sort of secret. “Werewolf syndrome.”

“Oh for…” Sherlock’s ears flattened and his tail started whipping around so violently that both John and Molly had to move to avoid being pummeled. Suddenly, he turned and, there was no other word for it, he pounced on Molly. He gripped her small shoulders in his long fingers. “You said, outside of…” He gave the shocked woman a little shake, and John was pretty sure that up until now he had never really understood the meaning of the phrase ‘like a mouse in a trap’. 

“Sherlock!” John tried to move between his friends. “Calm down. She’s here to help.”

Sherlock’s hands flew open and up, releasing the startled woman from his grip. “I’m sorry. Molly.” His eyes were wide in an expression that was almost the same as the one he wore when making a discovery in his mind palace, and at the same time, completely not like that at all. “I… I’m not sure exactly…” 

He looked to John, silently begging for help. John fervently wanted to comply. “It’s okay, Sherlock.” Yeah, quite helpful that. “It’s been a stressful day, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock whipped the dressing gown around his body and tied the sash around his waist with such force that John was sure he’d actually lost an inch or two in the process. “It has, rather.” He started to plop into his chair, but remembered the tail at the last minute and stopped, sort of squatting just above it, and let out a growling sound of frustration. Then he took a deep breath and. slowly, he stood, until, standing straight, and brushing off the front of the gown, he seemed to have his emotions under control once more. “Molly,” he said. “Before I…” He moved one hand vaguely through the air. “Well, before, you said that you had never seen it outside of something. What was that?”

Molly grabbed her ponytail and started to stroke it, much as she had earlier done to Sherlock’s tail. She looked at John and then at Sherlock. Then she looked down, obviously trying to hide her embarrassment. “It was nothing,” she said. “It’s, well... I’m, well... See, it’s just so silly.”

Sherlock stood back and gestured to his body. “I think we’ve pretty much gone beyond silly, here. Don’t you, Molly?” Unexpectedly, Sherlock smiled, and it was genuine and fond. “Why don’t we all sit down and you tell us where you’ve seen anything remotely like this.”

When everyone was seated, or, in Sherlock’s case, perched, and fortified with new cups of tea, Molly started. “Okay, so, how much do you know about fanfic?”

John looked at Sherlock who looked at him and shrugged. John looked back to Molly. “You mean those stories that lonely women write for each other about television shows.”

“They aren’t always about television,” Molly answered. “And they aren’t always lon-” She stopped, thought a moment, then seemed to find some kind of inner fortification. “Look,” she said. “I did say it was silly, but, really, some of them are quite good.”

John opened his mouth, hoping to find some sort of cogent apology before the words actually came out, when he was saved by Sherlock. “In these fanfics,” he started, his fingers tented under his chin. “You find situations like this?”

“Actually, just like this.” Molly put down her cup and went to the table where John’s laptop lay open. “Do you mind?” John shook his head. He moved behind her, intending to quietly give her his new password, when he noticed she was already typing. StaYaWaySH wasn’t really a strong password after all. although it had to be an improvement over StPDgit. Even Mrs. Hudson got that one.

He looked at the site that Molly had just pulled up and frowned. “Johnlock, Now and Forever”?

“Oh, yeah,” Molly said. She moved the cursor a bit and clicked a few drop menus. “There are lots of fan sites for you two.” She started slowly scrolling down a page. “They started popping up after your blog got popular, and then after Sherlock well, died, they sort of exploded. There’s, let’s see, Sherlockiana, BakerStreet Boys, WhumponWatson, but this is the most popular by far.” She hit one more button. “Here it is!” she triumphed. “I knew I saw it this morning. Page three, already, so we were lucky to find it. By the time they hit page five, they’re pretty much forgotten.”

Sherlock spun from his perch on the back of his chair and jumped over to the table, moving both John and Molly aside. “Through the curtains, morning light filtered into the bedroom, giving John a glimpse of his new pet.” Sherlock frowned and looked at John like this was his fault. “Pet?” John just shook his head slightly and shrugged his shoulders. He was still working his mind around the idea of a site devoted to whumping on him.

“Keep reading,” Molly urged.

“He was so adorable,” Sherlock made a face as he said the word, and a part of John couldn’t help thinking that, in itself, was actually kind of cute. “John couldn’t help thinking. He had his shiny, black tail wrapped around his tucked in legs and one velvety ear was slightly twitching. John climbed in beside the mancat and…”

John reached over and slammed the laptop shut. “I think we get the gist, thank you.”  
He held the laptop in his arms as he stepped back. “So, what are we thinking here, Sherlock? That this…” He tapped the computer with his fingernails. “Is some how related to that?” He nodded with his head to the tail that was now rubbing slowly up and down Molly’s leg.

“Possibly.” Sherlock paced the room. “Whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever is left, however improbable, must be the truth.” He looked up. “You can go now, Molly.”

John rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Molly,” he said. His tone made it clear that he was saying it for both of them no matter what Sherlock had, or hadn’t, said. “You’ve been a great help.”

John had intended to walk Molly down, but just as he was following out the door, Sherlock reached over his shoulder and grabbed his computer and strode back to the table. John whirled and started to grab for it back, but got a face full of tail for his effort. “Fine,” he said, pretending he actually meant to let Sherlock have it all along. “What do we do now.”

“Research,” Sherlock answered. “Obviously. We need to know how many times our actual lives have intersected with these stories.”

“So we are going to spend the night reading bad fiction about our own lives.” John sighed. “That sounds entertaining.”

“Necessary.” Sherlock looked up from what he was reading. “Why do you suppose it’s called Johnlock?” He continued reading, while John picked up the iPad Sherlock sometimes used. “Oh.” Sherlock sat down in the chair, making sure his tail found the gap in the back. “Oh, I see. It’s for John slash,” He actually made the little air quotes this time. “Sherlock.”

*********************************************************************************

It was around three in the morning when Sherlock finally looked up. “There does seem to be a pattern here.” He stood and stretched. He looked out the window at some ravens pecking at something under a street lamp. “Tomorrow, we’ll have to find a way to investigate some of the writers.” As he watched the ravens, one stopped and quirked its head. Sherlock had the strangest feeling it was looking directly at him. “I suppose we shall have to alter some of my clothes and find that silly hat people are so fond of.” 

He turned to find his friend slumped in his chair, the iPad on the floor where he had dropped it hours ago. “I SAID!” He held back his smile when John startled and looked around, obviously trying to pinpoint where the hell he was. “We will have to alter some of my clothes.”

John looked at Sherlock, did a fairly theatrical double take, closed his eyes and then opened them slowly. “No,” he finally said. “I don’t think we will.”

Sherlock gave John the pointed look that always meant, “Don’t be an idiot. Not that you can help it, really, but do try.” 

John sighed and moving to stand next to his friend, he turned him until he was facing the mirror. “They’re gone,” he said. “I don’t know how. I’m not even sure I want to know how, but they are gone.”

Sherlock looked at his now much more human looking head in the mirror. He moved his head one way then the other, touching both ears as he did so. Then he spun and, while he did see his dressing gown twirl dramatically, there was no tail accompanying it. He looked over to John, hoping for some explanation, but John was busy looking around on the floor. 

“Where do you suppose they went?” John continued to look around suspiciously, as if he were afraid one of the shadows would turn out to be a disembodied tail looking for revenge.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said slowly. “But I am going to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is a reintroduction I have several chapters already written. I will, therefore, update two or three times a week. The story isn't completely written, however, so if there is a trope you'd like me to explore, and tear apart, please let me know.


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